The Blank Page

Welcome, dear reader, to my blog. That’s right, I have a blog now. Recently, I found myself suffering from blog envy and, as we all know, there’s only one cure for that. Get blogging. Whether anyone asked you to or not.

I can’t promise this is going to be a weekly thing. Or monthly. I guess that all depends on how well the writing is going and just how distracting the world beyond my keyboard becomes. I can’t promise it’ll be much more than me talking about myself either. There might be some book and film reviews of a sort in there. Or some hype and hope for the many talented people I’m lucky enough to know. Still, I’ll do my best to make this as interesting as I can and keep you posted on exactly where me and my brain are when it comes to co-existing on a daily basis and telling stories. I’ll try and make some good points along the way and be as open with you as I can. If I can do that, then I think we’re off to a good start.

Of course, all those big temptations are easy. If you’re going to cave to them, then you’ve been doing that long before you got here. Just one more bottle to make the pain away. Just one more pack, so I can get through to the weekend. I’ll quit tomorrow. I’ll quit in the new year. I promise. It’s all a dance that goes on through endless, sleepless nights or restless, sweaty afternoons. There’s no sport in that type of addiction. Not for the likes of us.

They always met here. When things needed discussing. When plans needed drawing up away from the prying eyes of their family. He arrived first. The eldest. He would order the first round and carry it carefully over to their table. Not that there was a sign on the table that sat beside the door to the little courtyard where people could smoke. It was simply written into the foundations of the place. This was Their Table.

They made accessories of themselves and others. They lived by aesthetics. The right physique. The right magazine left, unread but skimmed, on the right worktop. Their unused, designer golf clubs sitting next to their skeletal framed racing bikes. Bikes that would squeal and throw up their handlebars should mud ever touch their shiny paintwork.

There were photos running up the stairs. The evolution of Sarah. When she went downstairs, she could reverse time. Go from awkward pre-teen to fidgety middle school girl. From nursery nativity darling to pudgy toddler. From first birthday to hospital bundle.

Curtains twitched. Featureless faces peered out. None of these people grew up around here. They’d swooped in from their daily commute, invading the moment these houses went on the market. They’d bloated the morning traffic queues and caused house prices to soar thanks to their private road. Well, it wasn’t so private tonight. He was claiming some curb for a free, front row seat.

I’m trying to remind myself these days that horror is a many splendoured thing. In fiction, that is. I’m not watching the news, smiling a slow snake smile and muttering the word ‘beautiful’ to myself. I’ll leave that to the people pulling the politician’s strings. Surely there must be someone watching the blossoming groundswell of chaos reaching far across the world today and congratulating themselves. Before turning to Hitler’s living brain (now safely implanted inside the body of a gaunt, pale, asthmatic gorilla) and offering a deeply worshipful high five.

You might remember, the other week, that I mentioned setting up a sort of required reading list for the new novel. Who am I kidding? Of course you remember. They’re putting up the blue plaque outside my window to commemorate the anniversary of me writing it. I was talking about how I was looking for particular things to read and watch. I was listening to a lot of horror scores. I was basically chasing some sense memory of the novel I’ve got growing in my head. Or I was sense checking that it didn’t already exist.